


Interlude

by Pennin_Ink



Series: The Swan Triad [2]
Category: Lebedínoye Ózero | Swan Lake, Sherlock (TV), Swan Princess (1994)
Genre: Correspondance, Epic Romance, Fantasy AU, M/M, New love, Pining, Romance, Yearning, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennin_Ink/pseuds/Pennin_Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of Till Now I Never Knew, John is away with the army and Sherlock is dividing his time between Cambridge, Sussex, and Château Vernet. With miles and miles between them, they still manage to forge the connection which eluded them their whole lives, first through letters, then weekly phone calls, until the day John comes home and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letters

_Dear Sherlock:  
  
 ~~How are you~~  Look, I’m sorry. At this point, I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for, but for some reason I feel like I’ve done something horrible to you  ~~And I just~~  I have all of these things I want to say, all of these thoughts and questions and I just can’t think of anyone else to write to. Mum would worry and Harry…not Harry. I thought of maybe writing to Uncle George, but whenever I think of him I think of, well, you know what I think of.  
  
Not that I need a reason, mind you. It can’t possibly come as a surprise that I think about you all the time. It’s like when you’ve done something horribly shameful or embarrassing. You can’t let it go. Only this time it’s something I haven’t done. Something I’m ashamed of myself for not doing.  
  
Christ, I just read that and I realise how crap it sounds. I don’t mean it like that. I understand why we didn’t.  ~~We were r~~  You were right not to. I mean…I mean that I was so STUPID to have let all that time pass and I never even considered  
  
I know you said a kiss isn’t enough to build a life on, but God help me it’s enough to drive a bloke mad. I think about it all the time. I still feel it. In my dreams, I’m being verbally assaulted by my Drill Sergeant and just when I’m about to break and punch his face out the back of his head, out of nowhere you’re right there kissing me again and he keeps right on yelling and I just don’t give a toss.  
  
Shit. Ignore that. I bloody hate longhand. I can’t believe I rambled like that. You don’t want to hear about my dreams. Look, it’s just that it’s really bloody miserable here and I need to talk about it. Well, ramble about it. So I’m sending this letter to you. And probably a lot more of them down the line. You don’t have to read them. What am I saying? Of course you’ll read them, nosy git. But you don’t have to write back. I’m going to write them regardless. So, sorry about that.  
  
I know it seems stupid, but I am really glad we kissed. It’s something to hold onto when I want to bash my head against the wall. Thank you for that.  
  
John._   
  
  
Dear John:   
  
I want you to know that I write this letter under duress. Mycroft found your letter to me. You know what happened after that. He’s becoming worrisome. He sees too much. And yes, I know exactly how absurd that sounds coming from me. I think he’s lying to mother and me about his job. I don’t think he’s quite as “minor” as he claims. He went back to London today. He spends the majority of his time there now. He never quite tells us what he does there, but he’s eager for me to work it out.   
  
For all that, Mycroft is boring now. He never argues anymore. He just stands there and looks at me like he’s trying not to laugh. I find I want to, as you say, “punch his face out the back of his head” more and more frequently these days. Harry could sort him out.   
  
For reasons you’ve alluded to far more than is necessary, my mother has been avoiding me. She rarely talks to me. She has that look on her face. You know the one. She wore it constantly that year your mother developed acute appendicitis. Was that the point at which you decided to become a doctor as well as a soldier? I find myself baffled that I let so many years pass without ever asking you about that sort of thing.   
  
My cultures are coming along nicely. You recall. That experiment you forced me to abandon that night. Some truly astonishing developments, actually. Find enclosed a step-by-step report of the experiment and subsequent findings. I gather new recruits tend toward insomnia in the early days. You’re welcome.   
  
I haven’t forgotten, John. I don’t think I can. So stop worrying.   
  
SH   
  
  
_Sherlock:  
  
Christ it hurts. Bloody everything hurts. I honestly can’t remember what it’s like to not be in pain. When I phone mum it’s all I can do not to break down and beg for her to come pick me up as though this place were bleeding summer camp. I manage, though. I think she thinks I’m doing okay.  
  
I’m not doing okay, though. I hate it. I bloody well hate it. I hate the shouting and the constant running and the climbing and never getting enough sleep (the report you sent was no help, please don’t weaponise gases in your bedroom). I truly hate the other recruits. There’s this one bloke, Bryres, I swear he’s just waiting for an opportunity to slit my throat while I’m in my bunk. I’m beginning to wonder if I should strike pre-emptively. Just in case.  
  
But something’s…I don’t know. It’s off, here. You’d probably suss it in a second. Things are different here. Yeah, I know. “Obvious”. But I’m serious, Sherlock. There’s something…I don’t know. I honestly don’t know how to describe it. It’s…sharp. I guess. Yeah. We’ll go with sharp. I constantly have this feeling like something is about to happen. Something really, really important. Something truly big. I wish I could put it into words, but I just can’t find the right ones.  
  
I don’t know what to make of it. I think it’s the reason I can’t sleep, though. Somehow, even with all the crap I have to handle here, it’s the idea of missing whatever’s coming that I can’t seem to stand. Christ, is this what you feel like whenever someone gets killed horribly in a new and inventive way? It’s like a physical itch. I think it’ll drive me mad.  
  
John._   
  
\---   
Dear John:   
  
No. It’s not. As bizarre as you may find it, I do not require vicious murder to stimulate my mind. I merely require innovative methods and challenging puzzles. Thefts, abductions and various other crimes are just as capable of fulfilling these criteria as homicide, and are just as likely to disappoint. Anyway, I do have other interests. My violin, for example. And the study of human behaviour.   
  
It’s odd, really. People are so simple, all predictable patterns of stimulus and response. But a person is complicated, layered and fascinating. I could spend hours exploring a single person and still never quite get a complete picture. I had thirteen years with you, and even they weren’t enough.   
  
Your mother arrived today. First time she’s set foot in Vernet without being on the payroll. I don’t think she liked it. She seemed desperate to get back to running the place. Mother is working on getting her to relax.   
  
I heard her on the phone with Harry a few hours ago. I think separating her and Mycroft was a bad idea. It didn’t sound like a happy conversation, and Aunt Ann obviously regrets allowing her to stay in London on her own. I don’t want to look closely, John. Should I? I mean Aunt Ann is usually very patient with me, but people can get quite defensive if I turn my eyes to someone they care about.   
  
I don’t know what you’re concerned about. Whatever it is you’re feeling doesn’t sound particularly negative. Don’t worry about missing out, John. If something important were to happen I’m almost certain someone would wake you. So get some sleep.   
  
Father is close to convincing mother. I’ll be eighteen soon. I’ll finally get my evaluation. I don’t know what to anticipate, but I’d appreciate it if you’d offer some support either way. I think, I really think I know what I want from this. I’ve spent years on it. Don’t wish me luck, though. This would be a fairly ridiculous time to start believing in the blasted stuff.   
  
SH   
  
\---   
  
_Dear Sherlock:  
  
It’s taken so long to make myself write this. You probably weren’t waiting, but in case you were curious, well. It isn’t easy.  
  
It’s not just that I’m busy. I am. But sometimes it’s just endless nothing and I’m so bored I feel like I’ll explode. Apparently that’s what war’s like. You alternate between Death’s mosh pit and absolute tedium. Or something like that. Anyway, it’s not just that.  
  
I honestly think time works differently here. I realise, in my head, that it doesn’t really take that long for a letter to travel from England to France and vice versa, but Christ it feels like years have passed since I wrote the last one.  
  
I’ve fired a gun for the first time. I understand now.  
  
As to Harry, you already have. I know you have. You know what I know, and probably more. Mum knows, but she doesn’t want to. Make her see what’s happening. She’s going to hate you. It’s only because she loves you, and eventually she’ll understand and she’ll forgive you. Trust me.  
  
It’s not easy, remembering you. I keep forgetting how to talk to people who aren’t in uniform. I don’t know where you rank. I can’t call you “sir”, I’ll never do that. But you’re not like me. I can’t treat you like the other lads. I have to backtrack and remember that the world has people in it who aren’t either recruits or officers.  
  
I still think about it. About that night. That John Watson seems like a different man. I keep wondering if you’d still kiss me, the way I am now. I’m not sure which answer I’m hoping for. I mean, it’s over isn’t it? Before it even started. There’s lads here. Fit lads. I mean, they’re not all towering arseholes. I just…  
  
They’re bloody well not you, are they? They don’t look at me like they can see right through me. They don’t obsess over criminology text books or poke at slimy things in dishes. They don’t have eyes that make no sense or hair that curls around my fingers or. Shit.  
  
I can’t stop it, Sherlock. I’m trying, but I can’t. Fuck. Fuck all of this. Get out of my head. You said we’d forget. So why can’t I? Why is it only getting worse? Why do I keep wanting to run away to France just to see if your lips still taste the same?  
  
I never should have started writing to you.  
  
John._   
  
\---   
  
John   
  
I hate you.   
  
Do you understand that? I hate you. I hate your letters and your dreams and your memories. I hate all of it.   
  
You’ve ruined me. You’ve taken everything I worked to become and you’ve ruined it. I could have been something great without you. I could have been incredible. Instead I’m just like the rest of you. Well, I’m still far more clever than most everyone, but you’ve managed to utterly destroy the scientific detachment I’ve been cultivating my entire life. And you did it all without my noticing. Me. You bastard.   
  
In the three months since I received your last letter, shall I tell you what you’ve managed to do to me? After I spoke to your mother about Harry, I found myself in my room with her shouting still ringing in my ears, and I was crying. I was actually crying. Involuntarily. I haven’t done that since I was six. Now I think on it, that was your fault, too.   
  
It took her weeks to forgive me, and then she came to me and apologised. And she held me. I actually allowed her to hold me. And I cried  _again_ . Harry’s here now. So is Mycroft. They spend most of their time together, locked away in Mycroft’s library. I can hear her crying when I walk past the door. And Mycroft using his quiet voice. The one he used to use when I started throwing things.   
  
I blame you for all of this.   
  
But you didn’t stop there, did you? You had to completely annihilate the man I was trying to become. I saw the doctor. I was ready. I knew exactly what to say, how to answer his questions and how to goad him into the proper diagnosis. It was perfect. I should have walked out of that office diagnosed with sociopathic tendancies, perhaps high-functioning sociopathy.   
  
He asked about you.   
  
No, that’s not quite right. He didn’t ask about you specifically. He asked if there was anyone. I tried to evade him but he kept pressing. It figures mummy would insist on a bloody psychiatrist who was actually comptetant at his job. I couldn’t lie about you. I couldn’t bring myself to pretend you away. I couldn’t stop myself from telling him about your last letter. Or why I hadn’t written back.   
  
You made me connect. You didn’t give me a choice. My whole life you’ve been right there, checking my behaviour and calling me an idiot and why the fuck were you never afraid of me? Why are you never afraid of anything? God I hate you John Watson.   
  
Shut up. I’m only a little drunk. And I’m obviously not driving anywhere. Besides, I can’t write this any other way. Really, shut up. If I’m sober I’ll think about what I’m writing, and if I think about it I’ll realise how utterly ridiculous I sound and I’ll delete all of this without printing it out. If I do that, Mycroft will never let me hear the end of it. He says I haven’t got the nerve to say this. It’s blatant manipulation, and he’s only ever blatant when he’s genuinely invested. I’d rather not deal with his passive-aggression for the next six months.   
  
Okay, yes, I also want to do this. I need to.   
  
I haven’t said it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. I think about it, too. Oh God I’m not nearly drunk enough for this. Okay.   
  
I was wrong.   
Wipe that stupid grin off your face, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Of course, I’m not generally quite this wrong. Good God I was wrong.   
  
Because it’s been over six months now, and I haven’t forgotten. You’re inside my head, too. I can’t erase you without erasing my life. And I don’t want to. I want to   
  
Fuck, I just want you to come back. Because I was so, so wrong John. A kiss is enough.   
  
It’s enough, okay? And here I am, bloody well waiting for you. I’ve gone mad. I must have gone mad. I’m mad and it’s your fault. You damn well made me fall in love with you. And now I’m even writing like you.   
  
I love you. You absolute, complete idiot.   
  
Don’t you dare say good-bye.   
  
You’re just as fucked up as I am, John. You know that. Fear isn’t a deterrent for you. It’s an invitation.   
  
John Hamish Watson, I am in love with you.   
  
RSVP.   
  
SH   
  
\---   
  
_Sherlock:  
  
Now?! Bloody now?! Fuck. Shit fucking FUCK.  
  
They’re sending us away. More training, but it’s also sort of a deployment and, yes, I’m scared as fuck. I do get scared. I just don’t mind it. I sort of like it. Brings things into focus. I’m sending you the new address. God I want to keep reading you.  
  
Sherlock I  
  
I can’t bloody believe this. Christ. How much time? Fuck. Fucking hell.  
  
Bryres is arsing about because of the stupid grin on my face. No, I’m not getting rid of it. Mitchenson wants you to send nude photos. I plan on knocking his teeth in. Defending your honour and all. But I DO want photos of you fully clothed, with your violin. Preferably poster-sized, so I can bloody well hang it on the wall and they can all see what a jammy bastard I am.  
  
We can do this, can’t we? We can actually make this work. You and me. Together. My God.  
  
Three months, Sherlock. You made me wait three months. I thought you’d moved on. I though it was over. I was all prepared to grit my teeth and jump into my work. Then all of a sudden this bloody letter and…God. You love me.  
  
You actually love me.  
  
I don’t... I’m not sure whether to hate you or scream your name from the rooftops. I just, I’m so, so sorry about those things I wrote, but if that’s what caused you to say what you did…Christ. Just…fucking Christ._   
  
**Oh Sherlock! Bab**   
  
_Fuck. Ignore that. That’s Lorris being a wanker. I’ll be punching his teeth in as well. Damn, he’s done a number on the paper. Sorry about that. I’ll try to smooth the worst of it out.  
  
It’s not long, Sherlock. It’s a year and a half, not even that really. I’ll come home and, Sherlock, wherever you are, I’ll join you. Cambridge, Vernet, fucking Fiji for all I care. I’ll come back, and I’ll be with you. I don’t care about the rest of it. There are other universities. I don’t need to train at Bart’s. If you want to go to America, I’ll study in America. Anywhere, Sherlock. We’ll make it work.  
  
I love you.  
  
I think, somehow, I’ve always loved you. I think we were doomed the day I gave you that necklace. Our mums just saw what we couldn’t.  
  
I love you, Sherlock Holmes. _   
  
**Oi, you with the name. You be good to our Johnny Boy or we’re comin after ya! We got guns and we know how to use em! And show him a good time, will you? The poor bloke’s wound so tight he’s about to snap. Balls blue as fu**   
  
_Fucking bastards! Sorry about them. They all fucking piled onto me. Couldn’t bloody breathe. That’s it. I’m posting this before any more of them decide they’ve got something to say. I love you, you’re a complete bastard, I promise not to die.  
  
Yours (I always was)  
John  
  
PS: Mycroft, quit fucking reading our post. I plan to get very graphic._   
  
\---   
  
Dear John:   
  
I’m not going anywhere. I’m English. I’m slightly offended you’d think differently of me. But, yes. I take your point. But don’t give up Bart’s. You spent far too much time deciding on it to start that intensely irritating and dull process all over again. Besides, I could possibly learn to like London. I’ve never really been. I’ve driven through with Mycroft on occasion, and mummy made me go to a play on the West End once. I could give the city a try. All those people. It sounds appealing.   
  
Enclosed you’ll find six photographs of me and my violin. You are now required to send your sister ‘a pin-up calendar’s worth of sexy ladies in uniform’ in reciprocation. You would have gotten none had she not intercepted your letter when she brought in the post. I honestly pity you for having lived with her year ‘round. The mad woman forced me into a photo shoot. Mycroft has been indulging her latest hobby. There were lights and backdrops and I think she’s damaged my retinas irreparably.   
  
I’m to ask for your honest opinion of the compositions. I’m far more interested in your opinion of the subject.   
  
The buttons were Harry’s idea, by the way. I’d have preferred to keep them fastened. Violins are not particularly comfortable against bare skin under studio lighting. Do I really look like ‘sex on legs’ in aubergine?   
  
Your friends seem interesting. I do hope they appreciate all the complimentary dental work you seem to be doing for them.   
  
I am sorry for waiting so long to tell you. I hope you know me well enough to understand why I hesitated. I’m not at home with this sort of thing. I didn’t expect to, as they say, ‘fall’ like this. And I regret that night.   
  
The Christmas holidays are hectic here. Your mother misses you. I admit, I miss you as well, even though we’ve never spent a Christmas together. Harry provides ample distraction, though. I’m eager to return to Cambridge, where the more inebriated of my fellow students are safely locked away in their own rooms. I fail to understand how a house with fifteen rooms can suddenly feel so crowded with the addition of two women. Even so, mummy smiles all the time now. And she’s quite forgiven me.   
  
I need to write something, and I swear I’ll burn your next letter if you laugh at me. You’re always so sentimental in yours. God I hope Mycroft doesn’t get his fat hands on it (he’s gained two stone since you last saw him). This is my turn.   
  
I never dream about our kiss. Or, if I do I never remember it. I almost never remember my dreams. So every night I lie in bed and I remember it instead. I’ve played it over thousands of times. There’s so much of that night that remains a blur, and I can never quite bring it into clarity. But I think I’ll remember the way your lips felt against mine until the day I die. But I’m running out of angles and sensations to memorise. There’s only so much one kiss can do. I need to kiss you again, John. There are so many questions I can’t answer yet. I don’t know the texture on the back of your teeth, or the proportions of your tongue. I hate not knowing, John. Come home and kiss me again.   
  
And since I know how you hate a problem you can’t solve, here’s one you can:   
  
I’ve never seen you in uniform. Please rectify this as soon as possible. Or, to be more colloquial: ‘I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours’.   
  
I want at least six photographs, and I want poses. Harry made me lounge about like a spoiled cat and contort myself into frankly irresponsible positions, you should be subjected to the same torment. Get Lorris to do it. He seems to have a fondness for theatrics. I’ve been trying to imagine your hair shorn instead of sticking up in all directions and I can’t quite seem to visualise it.   
  
Be careful. I’ve never known you to break a promise, and I’d hate it if this was your first.   
  
And I really, really hate waiting.   
  
Yours in turn,   
SH   
  
\---


	2. Phone Calls

The letters continued, until they were no longer enough. It was a trial and a half to secure phone time, but eventually he and Sherlock managed to set up a weekly appointment to chat voice-to-voice, and once they had that to supplement the letters, it was almost tolerable.   
  
‘Christ I want you.’ John breathed into the phone.   
  
‘Tell me.’   
  
‘Thirteen months, twenty-six days.’   
  
Sherlock groaned, and the sound sent violent shivers along John’s spine and consuming heat to his skin. ‘Too long. It’s much too long.’   
  
‘We’re almost down a year, Sherlock. It’s not so long. We can make it.’   
  
‘I hate this. I want to know how you taste. You must taste differently now. How am I meant to stand not knowing?’   
  
‘Just one more year.’ John assured him. ‘Just one more. We made it through this one, we’ll make it through the next.’   
  
‘I can’t wait to sleep beside you. My bed is cold with just me.’   
  
‘Is that all you want? To sleep?’ John teased.   
  
‘You’re being vulgar again. Of course I want more than sleep. I’d also prefer not to talk about what else I want on a military phone line.’   
  
‘Point taken. I, on the other hand, have absolutely no problem with Her Majesty’s Armed Forces knowing just how badly I want to run my hands over every inch of your body.’   
  
‘John.’ Sherlock warned.   
  
‘How much I want to run my tongue across your skin, find out what the hollow of your throat tastes like.’   
  
‘ _John_ .’ Sherlock groaned.   
  
‘How painful it is not to peel away all of your clothes until I can explore every part of you I haven’t seen yet, to touch you and taste you and find every secret spot that makes you gasp and scream and writhe under me. How much it’s killing me not to hear you screaming my name.’   
  
‘John, stop it!’   
  
‘Louder, Sherlock.’   
  
‘Piss off! I’m not having phone sex on a government line. Mycroft is probably listening.’   
  
John chuckled. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s got better things to do than spy on our conversation.’   
  
‘Don’t be.’   
  
John glanced at the clock and licked his lips. ‘Tell me you want me, Sherlock.’   
  
There was a pause. ‘John, please.’   
  
‘I don’t have much time left. Please, I need to hear it.’   
  
There was an audible gulp, and Sherlock quietly said, ‘I love you John. I want you so badly I can’t think. I’m going mad wanting you. It hurts. Please, John. Please for the love of God come home.’   
  
John closed his eyes, let Sherlock’s voice and Sherlock’s need sink into his bones. He drew a ragged breath. “Thirteen months, twenty-six days, barring delays. Just hold on just that much longer. I will come back. And when I do, I’m taking you to bed and we’re not coming back out for a week.’   
  
‘How much time?’ Sherlock’s voice was strained.   
  
John looked at the clock again. ‘One more minute.’   
  
Sherlock’s breathing shuddered. ‘Don’t say it.’   
  
‘Never.’   
  
‘Don’t think it, either.’   
  
John smiled. ‘I’ll try.’   
  
‘John, I love you.’   
  
‘I love you, too.’   
  
‘Promise me it’s soon.’   
  
‘I promise.’   
  
‘Don’t say it.’   
  
‘Not a chance.’   
  
‘Soon.’   
  
John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn’t see. ‘Soon, love.’   
  
John’s CO appeared and gave John a significant look. John took a deep breath. ‘Sherlock, it’s time.’   
  
Sherlock made a sound, and John refused to call it a sob. ‘Don’t say it.’   
  
‘I won’t. I love you.’   
  
‘I love y--’ The line cut off. John looked up at his CO, who had his finger on the phone switch. John sighed and nodded, then he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. ‘Sir, yes sir.’   
  
\---   
  
‘John!’ Sherlock gasped. His voice crackled and snapped over the dodgy connection. ‘I’m here!’   
  
‘You complete wanker, where the fuck were you?!’ John demanded. ‘I thought the phone was going to ring out.’   
  
‘Sorry!’ Sherlock panted. ‘Sorry. Came as fast as I could. Arrested. Mycroft’s an ass.’ Sherlock was still breathing hard, and John’s own chest clenched in sympathy.   
  
‘Wait, what? Arrested? What the bloody hell did you do?’   
  
‘It was entirely defensible, John!’   
  
‘Talk. Now.’   
  
‘It was the only way to test the theory without--’   
  
‘Tell. Me. What. You. Did.’ John kept his voice deliberate, a fine imitation of the officers’ command tones. He’d have to master it at some point, if he was going to join the RAMC after graduating from Bart’s.   
  
Sherlock heaved a sigh. ‘I may have…liberated certain specimens from the biology lab.’   
  
‘“Liberated”. You stole pickled dead things in jars?’   
  
‘…yes.’   
  
‘Why?’   
  
‘I needed round the clock access to the experiment.’   
  
‘And you didn’t ask your professor because?’   
  
There was a pause.   
  
‘Sherlock?’   
  
More silence.   
  
‘Sherlock Sherringford Holmes, I asked you a question.’ This time he adopted the voice of Auntie Vivi. He could practically hear Sherlock shuddering over the lousy connection.   
  
‘…well, the faculty don’t generally mind loaning out specimens to diligent students.’   
  
‘But?’   
  
‘But apparently sixteen pig foetuses is considered “excessive” regardless of experimental merit. So I took matters into my own hands.’   
  
‘And got arrested.’   
  
No response.   
  
‘Sherlock,’ John groaned. ‘Today? Today of all days you decide to land yourself in jail.’   
  
‘Of course not! I’m not an idiot. I’d never take a risk like that on Wednesday. I did it yesterday, and Mycroft in his infinite arrogance decided it would be a fantastic idea to make me stay in the cell overnight, then faff about in his office until the last minute just to see how insane I went. ’   
  
‘Why would he do that? Does he want me to break his nose? I’m perfectly willing to break his nose if that’s what he’s after.’   
  
‘I think he figured it would be character building or some such nonsense.’   
  
‘Sherlock, if you had any more character you’d be hazardous to public safety.’   
  
‘I think I’m flattered. And a little randy. You’re cheating.’   
  
‘Not at all.’   
  
‘I’m not having phone sex. It’s bad enough knowing your mates are always reading my letters.’   
  
‘I try to stop them. They’re very persistant.’   
  
‘At least their vocabulary is improving. Lorris’s last little addition was practically coherant.’   
  
John tried and failed to stop himself grinning. ‘Christ. Only you, Sherlock. So, am I going to come home to a delinquent?’   
  
‘Relax soldier boy. Mycroft got me out of the ASBO. ‘   
  
‘Pity. You know how danger turns me on.’   
  
‘I can always go back and try again.’   
  
‘Eh, don’t bother. Repetition is boring.’   
  
Sherlock drew a sharp breath. ‘Stop that. I’m not having phone sex with you.’   
  
John resisted the urge to stomp a petulant foot. ‘At least tell me what you’re wearing.’   
  
‘Jeans. Dark blue, brown stitching. One of your old t-shirts, it’s that green one with the bio-hazard symbol on it.’   
  
John chuckled. ‘I actually got that because it reminded me of you.’   
  
‘Really? I thought you hated me back then.’   
  
‘I did. It was ironic. And possibly should have been a hint. That was the year Mike had to keep telling me not to stare at you.’   
  
‘I did like it. When I saw you wearing it. I wanted to nick it from your room.’   
  
‘Why are you wearing it now? I thought I brought it back to London with me.’   
  
‘You did. Your mother and Harry brought your stuff with them when they moved in. It still smells like you.’   
  
‘Like us, now.’   
  
Sherlock took a deep, unsteady breath. ‘The answer is still no.’   
  
John gritted his teeth, then made himself relax. ‘Are you barefoot?’   
  
‘Of course. Your obsession with my feet is a little worrisome.’   
  
‘Sherlock, barefoot is the most uncovered you get. I have to have  _something_ .’   
  
‘Harry made me pose bare-chested.’ He pointed out.   
  
‘Yes, and I nearly came. Do you see what I’m getting at?’   
  
Sherlock was quiet for a time, then he said in a low, sultry voice, ‘I lie in bed shirtless, when it’s dark and quiet. I lie there with your necklace against my skin and I think of you.’   
  
John had to brace himself against the desk, a wave of dizziness overwhelming him as all the blood rushed from his brain to his groin. ‘More.’   
  
‘It burns. I feel like my skin will catch fire. I want you to touch me, and I don’t know if you’ll put the fire out or if you’ll burn with me, and I don’t care.’   
  
‘Christ. Where the hell did that come from?’   
  
‘Isn’t this what you want?’   
  
‘Yes. God, yes.’ Anything, anything to keep him talking in that voice, low and breathy and tinged with something that sounded like desperation. ‘Keep going.’   
  
‘You’re stronger now. I keep looking at the photographs you sent me. I keep looking at the muscles of your arms. You could lift me up. It wouldn’t even be difficult for you. You could lift me off the ground and I could wrap my legs around your waist and we could be so close, John. Every inch of me touching you. Wrapping myself around you, trusting you not to let me fall.’   
  
‘Fuck. Fuck, Sherlock, what the fuck are you doing?’   
  
‘Do you want me to stop?’   
  
‘No!’   
  
‘We could breathe each other in, John. Inhale each exhale until we’re filled with each other, until you’re in my blood, moving inside of me with every beat of my heart.’   
  
John’s vision was starting to blur, and he found himself leaning all of his weight against the wall. He didn’t trust his legs.   
  
‘You could carry me, like that. Take me wherever you want. You would be so gentle, John. You would set me down somewhere soft, your hands would cradle my body, making sure I don’t drop too quickly. You would be so careful with me.’   
  
‘Sherlock…’ John moaned. He hurt. He ached low in his body and Christ he was  _burning_ .   
  
‘I’d let you. I’d jump into your arms. I’d give up that control to you. I’d want it. I know you’d never take me anywhere I didn’t want to go.’   
  
‘Sherlock. Sherlock, please!’   
  
‘Tell me.’   
  
John actually had to gasp for breath at the sudden halt. He blinked, trying desperately to claw through the fog in his mind. ‘Wha…what?’ He shook his head to try an clear it.   
  
‘Tell me, John.’   
  
John managed to find his thoughts and put them to use. ‘Twelve—twelve months. Twelve months and six fucking days.’   
  
'Can you hold on, just that much longer?'   
  
'You bastard.'   
  
He could bloody well  _hear_  the smirk on the smug git's face. 'You love me.'   
  
'Yeah, you're damn right I do.'   
  
\---   
  
'They're a lot like contacts, really, but they've got these sort of barbs on and they grip the inside of the eyelid to keep it from opening again. It's interesting, how much movement goes on after death. It's fairly kinetic, really.'   
  
'That's…that's great, Sherlock.'   
  
A pause. Then, 'While I realise you may not share my enthusiasm for Mr Haysworth's mortuary, you're generally more involved in our conversations than this.'   
  
John winced. 'Sorry, love.'   
  
'You're distracted.'   
  
'I'm sorry, really. Go on. You were saying…something undoubtedly horrid. Do go on.'   
  
'John, if I wanted to engage in an uninterrupted monologue, I would have written you another letter. The whole point of this weekly ritual is so I can hear your voice. Talk to me.'   
  
John sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'It's nothing, Sherlock. Tell me about the dead people.'   
  
'John.'   
  
John said nothing, but he swallowed against a lump in his throat and closed his eyes.   
  
'John, please.'   
  
John took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. 'I'm… we've got a mission. We're moving out tomorrow morning. I nearly didn't get here tonight. I… I didn't want you to worry.'   
  
Silence. John almost hoped they'd been cut off. Then, 'No.'   
  
'Sherlock, I'm a soldier. Active duty. Basic is over, I have to do my job. And my job sometimes involves going places where people point guns at me and pull the trigger.'   
  
'How many times has that happened?' Sherlock demanded. 'How much haven't you told me?'   
  
'Not many.' John said quickly 'Sherlock, this is a peace-keeping mission, not a war. Sometimes violence breaks out and we show up to stop it. It's not really that scary.'   
  
'You're scared now.' Accused Sherlock.   
  
'Yes. Guns are just as lethal in peacetime as they are in war. But I'll be fine. I promised, didn't I?'   
  
'Don't do that.' Sherlock snarled. 'Don't. Don't act like what we want or what we say has anything to do with what happens to you out there. Tell me the truth. You could die tomorrow.'   
  
John clenched his jaw. 'So could you.'   
  
'Stop it!'   
  
'What do you want me to say, Sherlock? Do you want me to go on pretending what I do isn't dangerous? Should we just imagine that I'm abroad to study or something? I'm not. I'm a man with a gun who goes where he's told and follows orders and tries to make it back alive. That is what I do. That is who I am. And I won't apologise for it.'   
  
Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment before he said, 'You could kill someone tomorrow.'   
  
John froze.   
  
'You might have killed someone already. Maybe more than once. Have you?'   
  
John swallowed. 'No. No, it hasn’t gone that far yet.'   
  
'But it could.'   
  
'I'm not a murderer.' John said through his teeth. Suddenly he was eight again, waving a stick at Sherlock and pretending it was a gun.   
  
'Yet.'   
  
'It's not--'   
  
'Don't tell me it's not the same thing. Everyone who kills someone believes the act justified. It doesn't change what it is. When you kill someone, John, you will be a killer. You just won't be a criminal.'   
  
'What are you saying?'   
  
'I'm saying it's going to change you. I'm saying that I love you, and I don't blame you for doing what you have to do, and I don't want you to hide it from me. I love you John. I'll still love you after you pull the trigger. Just, when it happens, don't act like nothing's changed.'   
  
John swallowed again. 'Okay.' He said. 'God, how did you know…?'   
  
'I spent thirteen years of my life with you, John. How could I not?'   
  
John hesitated. 'Sherlock, tomorrow…well, a lot could happen and--'   
  
'Don't say it.'   
  
'I just don't want you to look back and regret that we--'   
  
'Don't. Say it.'   
  
'Sherlock, I--' He paused, then sighed. 'Okay. I won't say it.'   
  
'Good. I love you.'   
  
'I love you, too.'   
  
'Tell me.'   
  
'Ten months, sixteen days.'   
  
'Too long.'   
  
'Yes.'   
  
'How much time?'   
  
'We have about fifteen minutes. Tell me about the mortuary.'   
  
\---


	3. Coming Home

_I'm sorry. I'm an ass. I'll never let it happen again. I'll try harder. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me._   
  
John was already stumbling for apologies even as his shaking fingers dialled the number. He'd been planning and rehearsing his big apology all week, and now it was falling apart in his head. The fact that Sherlock would dismiss his anguish and meet it with laughter and affection did nothing to ease his nerves. Though he was looking forward to it.   
  
They'd been called the previous Wednesday on manoeuvres. He hadn't seen the base again until Friday afternoon, so there had been no call to England, no blissful hour of genuine connection, no sin-inspiring baritone, no Sherlock.   
  
The phone rang, and John's nerves lit up like Trafalgar Square at Christmas. He licked dry lips and waited.   
  
The phone kept ringing, and John frowned. Had the mental git gotten arrested again? Good Christ, he wasn't bored, was he? Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with when he was bored. He could be up to anything. But no, Sherlock was never bored on Wednesday. He said the anticipation kept him occupied, and then afterward, he would spend the rest of the day running over each word and intonation. So where was he? In the last nine months it was only John who ever missed a Wednesday. Sherlock, it seemed, would move Hell and Earth to get to the phone on time.   
  
'Come on, Sherlock, pick up!' He hissed into the transmitter.   
  
The phone kept ringing. John knew he hadn't got the number wrong. He could dial that number in his sleep. Even so, he was just about to hang up and try again when there was an audible click on the other end.   
  
'Sherlock! Christ I was going mad! What the fuck kept you?'   
  
There was a lengthy silence.   
  
'Sherlock? Is something wrong? Look, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. I swear I did everything I could. I wanted to be here. I tried, I swear I did. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to call you. Please, please forgive me.'   
  
Still silence, but now John could hear a laboured breath, and it sounded very wrong.   
  
'Sherlock? Babe, please talk to me.' That should do it. If nothing else, Sherlock could never resist the chance to mock John for using pet names.   
  
Finally, there was a voice. But it was the wrong one. 'I'm sorry, John.'   
  
John jumped, then he pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, as though it held some clue to whatever was going on.   
  
'Mycroft?'   
  
'Sherlock can't talk to you today. I'm sorry.'   
  
A thousand scenarios flashed through his head. Each one was more horrible than the last. 'No. Don't give me that. Don't you dare keep me in the dark. Where is he?'   
  
'I can't tell you that, John.'   
  
'Fuck you! You tell me what's happened, Mycroft, or I swear I'm coming back and I'm going to slam your face into the first wall I come to. Where the fuck is my boyfriend?'   
  
'I cannot tell you.' Mycroft said deliberately. 'Please believe me when I say I wish it were otherwise.'   
  
'Who's doing this? Is it your dad? I know your mum can't be okay with this. She'd want me to know. Tell me!'   
  
'John, please.'   
  
'Put Harry on. Or mum. Anyone but you.'   
  
'I'm afraid that's not possible. Please John, just go back to work. Sherlock won't be contacting you again.'   
  
'Mycroft!'   
  
'I'm sorry, John.'   
  
'Mycroft! You twisted fuck you tell me what's happening! Mycroft! Mycroft!'   
  
But there was no response. The line had gone dead.   
  
John frantically dialled again, but he got no answer. His mind flashed with an image of Sherlock straining to reach the phone while being held back by large men in suits and dark sunglasses. It was a ridiculous image, and it painted Mycroft as some kind of Bond villain, but it lingered just the same.   
  
The phone rang out. John dialled again. And again. Six tries in, he gave up. He waited out the rest of his allotted hour slumped on the floor, crying silently into his drawn-up knees.   
  
\---   
  
John tried again the next week, and the week after that. He tried every subsequent week until the final month of his tour, at which point the rage in his blood had settled over his eyes like red smoke. He would, he decided, go back to that fucking bloated house in Sussex and he was going to find the rat bastard keeping Sherlock from him and he was going to beat Sherlock's location out of him.   
  
He could do it. He was capable of all sorts of things now. He knew how it felt to kill someone now, and Sherlock had been right. It changed things.   
  
Did it matter that the man he'd killed had shot three of his mates? Did it matter that the man he'd killed had been waving a gun at a crowd of terrified people? Did it matter that the man he'd killed had died quick, a bullet tearing through his brain in a fraction of a second, silencing him mid-rant?   
  
Yes, fuck yes it mattered. If the man hadn't done those things, John wouldn't have killed him. Did that make his blood any less red, his face any less mangled, or his eyes any less terrified?   
  
No. No it didn't. And Sherlock should have been there. Should have listened to the tightness in John's voice, should have whispered soothing words and told John that he was still good, still worthy, that he hadn't been tainted and ruined. The dead man's blood had been so hot. John could still feel it on his forehead and cheeks. Some of it had sprayed his lips, and he could taste it. Sherlock should have known. Sherlock should have been there to listen and understand. Sherlock would have forgiven him.   
  
But he hadn't been there. John had endured it alone, killed a man and faced himself afterward with no one to tell him he was okay, stayed up and watched his mates sweat through the pain and fever that had accompanied their wounds until the infirmary staff kicked him out, all the while knowing that he could write it all down in a letter, but no one would read it.   
  
So he'd hardened to it. He was John Watson, soldier, and he had blood on his hands. He'd earned that blood, he could take a sort of bitter pride in it. And now…   
  
Now he was going home.   
  
\---   
  
John hadn't bothered telling anyone back home what time he'd be in. In fact, he deliberately missed his connection and got himself re-directed to another flight just in case they'd gotten hold of his itinerary. He got a cab at Heathrow, and took the train to Sussex, where he got another cab to take him to the house.   
  
There was only a single black sedan in the drive when John pulled up. Likely his mum and Harry had left to look for him, probably with Aunt Vienne in tow. The ambassador was rarely home, anyway, so the car was probably Mycroft's. That suited him just fine.   
  
He rang the doorbell and waited. He expected one of the staff, but it was Mycroft who opened the door. Something hot and sharp and pleased shot through his veins, and in the next breath he had Mycroft up against the wall, John's forearm against his throat, cutting into his windpipe.   
  
'Tell me where he is, or I start hurting you.' His voice was doing things he hadn't even known it could do. He liked it.   
  
'John. Please.' Mycroft breathed.   
  
'Don't! You don't get to beg. You don't get to negotiate. You tell me where he is. You have no other use than that.'   
  
'John, you've got to listen. We didn't want--'   
  
'Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! The next words out of your mouth had better be "Sherlock is" or I swear I'll start collecting teeth.'   
  
Mycroft took a breath, though the bastard still looked completely composed. He seemed to consider for a while, then he said, "Sherlock is not here.'   
  
'Fucking--'   
  
'John.' Mycroft's voice was firmer now, and for the first time John noticed the absolute lack of fear in his eyes. John, apparently, had only gotten this far in his intimidation because Mycroft had let him. Two years of military training under his belt and Mycroft was  _still_  creepy as fuck.   
  
'Where is he?' John asked again, quieter this time.   
  
'He's gone, John.' Mycroft said, and his eyes flashed with a sudden flicker of pain. 'I'm sorry.'   
  
John blinked at him blearily. The words had made sense, all of them. They were words he knew, ordinary, every day words. But the didn't seem to fit. They whirled round and round his head and none of them managed to sink in properly.   
  
'He's…'   
  
'He's gone. We couldn't tell you. We couldn't risk…'   
  
John couldn't get enough air. He wasn't entirely sure he still knew how his lungs worked. His knees, what was wrong with his knees? His hand groped for the wall, and when he found it he staggared into it as his legs gave out. His head was spinning and Mycroft was talking but it was all sound and none of it meant anything because 'gone'. And 'gone' meant so many things and it meant nothing and the world kept tilting and John had never liked boats, so why was he on one now?   
  
'John?'   
Spinning and roiling and now his stomach was churning and oh God he was going to be sick he couldn't breathe and gone, what the fuck was gone and Sherlock oh God please, please Sherlock stop spinning can't move can't see can't _think_  please let it be a lie…   
  
'John!' And there were hands gripping his shoulders and Mycroft was there, kneeeling beside him.   
  
'I don't…I don't understand.'   
  
'I know, John. Please believe me, we wanted to tell you. We never wanted to hurt you like this.'   
  
'John?' It was a feminine voice, and John looked up to see pale, worried eyes and limp, dark hair streaked with grey. Her eyes were deadened with worry and pain and John found himself getting to his feet, stumbling forward and before he really knew what he was doing he had wrapped Vienne in a crushing hug and he was sobbing into her hair.   
  
'I couldn't… We wanted to tell you.' She choked out, her own tears falling freely. 'I'm so sorry, John. I'm so--' but she couldn't get the rest out. Her voice gave out on her and she clung to him, suddenly frail and small and, for the first time in John's life, Vienne seemed breakable.   
  
'Come, John.' Mycroft said quietly, gentle hands pulling John and Vienne apart. 'I'll explain.'   
  
\---   
  
'It happened after you failed to call.' Mycroft said, staring blankly out the window of his study, not seeing the garden beyond. 'He was miserable, moping around the house and worrying himself sick. He said he needed a distraction, something to keep him from imagining all the things that could have happened to you.'   
  
John felt a sick twist in his stomach, but he said nothing.   
  
'I offered to take him to London with me. He'd been wanting to see the city. He said he had plans to relocate there while you earned your medical degree. He had some interest in the forensics department at the Metropolitan Police. I thought a change of scenery, a tangible connection to the future he hoped to build with you, it might do him good. He agreed, and we left.'   
  
Mycroft turned, and there was a small, heartbroken smile on his lips. A funereal smile. 'He loved London. He exhalted in it. I don't know how much of it was genuine pleasure and how much of it was the connection to you, but he was glowing with it. I haven't seen him so happy in far too long.'   
  
'Mycroft.' John said. 'Tell me.'   
  
Mycroft sighed, and he looked so painfully tired. 'We were in the car, on our way back to Sussex. Sherlock was rattling on about all the things he was planning to tell you the next time you spoke. He'd managed to talk his way into the morgue at St. Bart's and he was giddy about it. Then the car jolted and veered off the road. It nearly tilted on its side. I remember climbing out the door, that my side was the higher of the two, and looking in the front seat to see the driver was dead. He'd been shot through the head. I remember being surprised at the amount of blood. I remember checking on Sherlock, that he was unconcious but bleeding. I remember trying to call 999 on the car phone but it wasn't working. I remember screaming for help.' He shook his head. 'It's all…so clear up to that point.'   
  
John swallowed, but the solid mass of pain lodged in his throat didn't move. 'And after that point?'   
  
Mycroft let out a shuddering breath, more a voicless sob than anything else. 'You have to understand, John, that I tried. I've done everything I can think of to regain my memories of that night. Hypnotic regression, drugs, therapists, I've had my brain scanned for abnormalities but there's nothing, John. Just emptiness from that point on. All I can truly remember is…surprise. I recall this phenomenal sensation of sheer disbelief. I know only that I saw whoever or whatever took my brother, and I was completely blindsided by it. I couldn't tell you what it was I saw, only that it should not have been seen. Forgive me John. I have tried.' He paused. 'When I...came to, this was in my pocket.'   
  
He held out a slip of paper, and John took it. 'We were hoping you'd know what it means.'   
  
John stared at the slip. It said, _Say it, Johnny Boy_ . John bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.   
  
'Well?' Mycroft prodded.   
  
John shook his head. 'It's...something we did. Something Sherlock would never let me say. At all.'   
  
'What?' Mycroft asked.   
  
John crumpled the paper in his fist, clenching his fingers until his knuckles went white. 'Good-bye.'   
  
Ignoring the look of loss on Mycroft's face, John stood up and paced the length of the room, trying to ease some of the restless tension from his legs. He came to a stop staring unseeingly out that same window. 'Get me a gun, Mycroft.' He said, his voice dangerously level. 'I plan to try harder.'   
  
\---


End file.
